Target
by NCC-1701.1899
Summary: It's 1906 and everything has changed, the streets are dark the newsies sacattered and the stage is set for a war between old friends. SLASH.
1. Prologue

This is the begining of my third story, and where as it's not rated M yet it's going to be. Warning- Slash. I don't own any characters from Newsies.

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"Guns are neat little things, aren't they? they can kill extrordinary people with very little effort."

-John W. Hinckley, Jr.

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Target:

Pay: 2500$ cash

Connections: Gang

Location: New York

Well the message was straight forward enough. Of course by now all that was really legible was the price and location. He had rubbed the rest off with his constant re-reading. The lean man had gotten the note a week ago in Boston and now sitting in the dingy Queens apartment room he'd done enough digging to find out exactly who his target was.

He was a young man 22 or 23 now, and had once been a newsie who was part of the 1899 strike. It seemed he'd done a lot to keep the strike alive. Then the boy had gone and joined a gang. The pale haired man sighed; _pity, he could've done so much more with his life._

Walking to the window he looked onto the street. Nothing unusual, just the same beggars and garbage cans.

No wait…

There.

A tiny flame jumped into existence as he watched, no doubt to light a cigarette. He narrowed his eyes. His icy blue gaze trying to find out more about this late night smoker. As the match moved upwards it cast light on the hunched figure.

Long black coat, brown pants, comfortable shoes, silver chain with a cross, gun with a silencer.

_A trained assassin, how interesting. _The man thought. He reached into his coat, and maneuvered himself so he could not be seen from below.

Shot. Straight in the head. No one had noticed, no one had cared, and in this neighborhood no one would remark on another body in a dark alleyway.

_Still better safe than sorry._ It would be a pity for someone of his caliber to get caught. He turned and grabbed his coat, the same style as the man outside had worn, but in brown. With one last look at the room, his tall figure silhouetted against the door, he made sure he'd left nothing behind, nothing to identify him, his employers, or his target. Then he walked out, shutting the door softly behind him and not looking back.


	2. Catching Smoke

Disclaimer: I dont' own anything that was in the 1992 musical. which this is based on.

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At the bottom of enmity between strangers lies indifference.

- Soren Kierkegaard

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The suit.

That was what first marked the man as different.

It was well made, probably over priced, and in the neighbourhood of about 50$. But that's not terribly uncommon in Manhattan nowadays. It was how the had wore his suit, or in this case did not wear his suit. He wasn't wearing the navy overcoat but carrying it, the pinstriped navy vest was undone, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. That was uncommon in Manhattan. Hell that's uncommon anywhere. A young well to do businessman rolling up his sleeves like a dockworker. And it was exactly this that had led Blade to follow the man.

Blade had been a newsie for seven years now, and a leader for one of them. Ever since ever since he was nine he'd been carryin' the banner. Of course unlike most of his fellow newsies he had a family which had meant he could sometimes go to school. He had learned quickly how to balance his two lives, and much to the delight of his parents always wanted to go to school. After all he'd quickly learnt that knowledge was the quickest way to power. Knowledge, wit, and an occasional fist. Many people had said that Jack Kelly and David Jacobs, the second being his elder brother, were his role models growing up. Now they say that his role models may have been Jack and David, but he'd become a leader mirroring his image after Spot Conlon.

He snorted. It wasn't true of course. Jack had been his idol, and David his advisor. He and Spot were just similar in how they thought. Which might have been the reason behind tailing this man, Les mused. Spot had always been suspicious of people and every time he met a new acquaintance committed the face and name to memory as well as any other information he happened to procure.

This man fell in the category of suspicious, and probably dangerous. But he seemed so familiar. As Manhattan's leader wove his way through the crowds, no matter how hard he tried he simply could not remember from where he knew the man.

Now the youngest Jacobs was leaning against the alley wall and watching this man with undivided attention, his brown eyes taking in everything. However his mind was having trouble unraveling the mystery presented.

The businessman had stopped at a game of street poker and he had watched three games before joining the fourth. He was not given a warm welcome by the original players, they'd given him suspicious glances and held their hands even closer tho their chests. This was a game between the best, that his man had managed to find his way here at all was a miracle. Manhattan could pick out a few players such as Tomcat O'Malley, a cargo loader from Brooklyn, Maestro, from Queens, a gang man, and Blue Bradshaw from Midtown, a bartender. There were others of the same playing caliber but few of the same repute. So Blade was surprised when the navy coloured man won not only one hand but three of five, and one of the losses was just a little to heavy to seem accidental. So his tally was really three games won, one loss, and one to keep the others interested on playing.

The man made less sense the more Manhattan watched. He laughed and joked with the other men, and when he lit a cigar offered one to the other players. He teased Bradshaw, seemingly knowing the big man wouldn't mind, and was always in a battle of wits against the Maestro. Actions making no sense Blade went back to his appearance hoping to find a clue from there.

Italian obviously, with chocolate brown eyes, and black wavy, almost curly hair. From his dress it's easy to see he's willing to flaunt wealth, but he has the hands of a labourer. With calluses and scars. His two most noticeable scars do not tell of a charmed life, a crescent carved into his neck and the imprint of brass knuckles on his arm. When the man laughs it shows his teeth are as crooked as his smile and the sound is a warm tenor rumble. And suddenly Les has it.

This man is the enigma that could not be solved, the code that no-one could crack, the man who disappeared like the smoke from his bedamned cigars. The familiar stranger is Racetrack Higgins.

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AN: I apologise that this chapter took so long. It seems my Newsies muses went on a long holiday. I can however promise that I will not take this long again. I have a very good friend who has definitely gotten me to start writing constantly again, and her encouragement has meant a great deal as i was sure that I was going to hiatus writing anything for the next year or so. So thank you to the readers who have decided to stick with the story and my very good math friend.


	3. Well Shit

Disclaimer: I dont' own anything that was in the 1992 musical. which this is based on.

Well the story's starting to come along. I'm sorry if i'Ve mispelled anything please tell me if I have.

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We make war that we may live in peace.

- Aristotle

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As he approached the man took in the lean form of his leader and the ease he would have seemed to exude to anyone else's eyes. Snipes wasn't everyone else though. The fact his leader was so tense that he practically poured charisma and confidence meant there was trouble. Snipes hadn't become second because Blade had lurred him into the position, well maybe that'd been part of it, but he'd known Les long before he was the charming philanderer is Manhattan. And it was true he reflected. Les was Manhatan in every sense of the place. He knew that Jack had started the leader taking the burrough's name by calling Conlon Brooklyn. Snipes snered at the thought. He had no love for Brooklyn. After Conlon had run Racetrack out of Sheepshed races the black haired man had packed up and left. That falling out had dimmed the light in Race's eyes to the point he began to detest the city he loved and reject the help of the friends who loved him. Steadily he got worse becoming thin as a rake and jumpy as Skittery. Race had left, just like that, without even a goodbye to the little boy who loved him like a brother. Snipes never said goodbye and doubted Race was even still alive with the decline his health had seen. That was when the seed of hate against Brooklyn had firmly lodged. Since that time Brooklyn had just gotten worse. The streets got even tougher and after Conlon left there was anarchy. The streets were bloody and far, far too many people died. Jack withdrew his help from Brooklyn, then gave the leadership of Manhattan to Jake. David, Skittery, Dutchy, Specs and Snoddy all left when Jack did and Jake held Manhattan together through Brooklyn's war. Snipeshooter remembered that wat though, watching Brooklyn burn from his perch on the bridge, Boots stumbling home with a bullet through his gut and bleeding out as Kloppman tried to save him. That war was bloody, and no matter how much Shooter hated Brooklyn he'd never wish to see another. With the way things had been going though.  
Snipes moved forward, making sure to make enough noise, a surprised Blade was never a good thing. The younger man turned around and it seemed within an instant his bad mood had dissapated like fog. The urge to laugh was clearly written across his face and Shooter knew what he must be seeing. His red curls were in dissaray and where his usually expensive and well fitting clothes were there are baggy street rat rags. His broad tall frame is hunched as though he has taken one beating too many and the intelligent blue eyes are somewhat obscured by the wire-rimmed glasses. Don't get him started on the dirt. "If yer' gonna laugh yy' might as well do it t' my face." At this his leader smiled and replied;  
"Now where would be the fun in that Snipes? When I laugh I make sure I'm not the only one. So what news do you have for me?" Les turned back to the poker game. Shooter sidled up next to him leaning against the opposite wall, it was a tight fit but they were alright. Snipes looked over at his leader taking in the wary eys and the mouth thinned in irritation. Grabbing the two apples he'd pinched from a cart he threw one to Les. Bastard didn't even have to look as he caught it. Taking a bite from his own he waited for Les to break the silence. When after three bites the younger man had not said a word Snipes asked;  
"So who's managed t' catch yer' eye? I don't see no one here that looks like trouble." Blade looked back at him, eyes guarded, lips thin. Snipes frowned. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He looked back toward the game, trying to find who the problem was. He recegnised all the players but one. All the men facing him were familiar but he stranger with his back turned was new.  
Shooters scowl became even more pronounced. It was rare you saw a stranger at his kind of a game. It's not like back street gambling was advertised and usually you found out about a game froma friend. Strangers did not just wander in here. A sudden burst of curses drew Snipeshooter from his thoughts. The stanger had won this hand and judging from his winnings this was not the first time he'd won either. Maestro was teasing him as the dark haired man collected his winnings. At Meastro's next jibe the stranger threw back his head and laughed. Snipes paled.  
No. Nononononononono. He was running. When did he start running?  
Race. Racetrack. Tony Higgins.  
He stopped running. No matter how shocked he was he could never forget the barrier between Brooklyn and Manhattan. Dimly Snipes registered someone calling his name. Les. Les. Les had known. Les didn't warn him. Snipes leant over the bridge panting, feeling like he was going to throw up. Everything was wrong. Race was dead he wasn'r coming back. But he was here, playing poker like he never left. He was back. Back in Manhattan.  
"Snipes!" Blade ran up beside him, taking in the form of his friend. No one ever shocked Snipes, it was one of the constandts in his Manhattan life. He'd seen everything, good and bad, if there was a prank to be played he'd already done it. It had been a long time since the broad-shouldered man had shown fear or confusion. Now seeing him leaning off the bridge as they had done when they were children made him seem so much younger than his seventeen years.  
Les winced at that thought. He'd had a mental barrier in place against his friend's age for near a year now, because when Snipes turned eighteen he would leave. That date was in less than a month. The elder man shivered, and Blade was brought back to the problem at hand. Calling himself ten kinds of idiot he rested his hand on Shooter's shoulder. Everyone had known how close Race and Snipes were and yet he hadn't had the foresight to warn his second. When Blade had caught hsi breath he spoke in calming tones haoping to calm the agitated man. "I'm sorry Snipes I should've warned you." The elder man having recovered as well looked up into Manhattan's eyes without hesitation. "Then why didn't ya? Les he was right there would it have killed ya t' have said somethin'?" The brown haired man winced and looked at his shoes. It seemed the only times he was humbled it was or ashamed was in thee presence of this man. Blade turned towards the water hoping the setting sun might give him answers. He chose his next word carefuly and spoke them with as much honesty as he could give.  
"No it wouldn't have killed me, but I didn't expect it to kill you. I'm so used to you taking what's thrown at you without blinking that I forgot that some things are going to throw you."  
Snipes snorted and looked back out over the water, his mask firmly back in place though somewhat pale around the edges. Les must have sensed the change of mood as he changed the subject, something the stooped man was grateful for. "So what news have you brought me?"  
Shooter took out a cigar, lighting it slowly in hope to postpone the question. Taking a long drag he exhaled and said;  
"Nothin' good. The bird's are sayin' that Brooklyn's taken t' openly carryin' weapons, but that's not our main concern. Unfortunatly it's only t' protect themselves."  
Les frowned about to ask why on earth Brooklyn needed to protect themselves. None of Manhattan's boys had taken to carrying weapons. At a second look at Snipes though Les waited for the explanation. The man looked, well he looked like he did when the first burrough war started. Snipes took another drag before he spoke again. "They ain't preparin' fer' a burrough war Blade. They're think the Cauvannahs are gonna start a gang war." Les paled.  
Shit.

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AN: Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers. Said wonderful reviewers being _newsie dork form D.U.M.B.O. _:_ Stacey Pontmercy _and _Holmes._


	4. Big Bad 1

In a battle all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood and the knowledge that it's more dangerous to lose than to win.  
-George Bernard Shaw

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New York, rides used to be hell, and to be honest they weren't much different now. Shoes clicking along the floor of the train station the man dodged hasseled-looking buisness men and joyful family reunions. The tall brown-haired man had been gone for one month, one month too long in his books. Concern wasn't a problem though, his second would have taken care of everything in his abscence.

_whap_

"Oh, sorry sir!" said a bright young voice from the vicinity of his head placed on broad-shoulders slowly looked down at the blond-haired boy.

"It's fine." They both continued on their ways, the blond boy not sparing a scond thought to the stranger. If he had he would have seen the man open his hand to count the money taken from his pocket. The change was dumped into a pocket of the brown haired man's dark vest, which complimented his pale skin and chocolate eyes.

Finally he reached the busy street. Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes. Home sweet home. He crossed the street navigating between carriages and people to the waiting man across the street.

He was leaning against the wall of the brick building, smoking, with a hat pulled low over face. The smoke curled around him, but it wasn't difficult to make out a thin strong build and average height. As the thin man noticed the man striding across the street, the cigarette was quickly extinguished, and his relaxed pose turned to one that demanded attention.

The older man stopped but a foot from him and took in his second's air of confidence. He snorted. When didn't the little shit look smug? The confidence was like a blanket that enshrouded the man. It was only his eyes that showed how cold the man really was.

Ice Blue.

Stormy like the sea.

Eyes the commanded your attention.

Brooklyn's eyes.

Conlon's eyes.


	5. Big Bad 2

Disclaimer: I dont' own anything that was in the 1992 musical. which this is based on.

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In all matter of opinions, our adversaries are insane.

- Oscar Wilde

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Everything was going as planned. Ace thought to himself as he wandered Chicago's noisy streets. In every major city the Commorants held territory things were beginning to stir. Anyone who was even remotely street savvy knew a storm was coming.

Good.

Ace smiled. He'd waited too damn long for this, made too many plans, lost too many men for this to fail now.

In every big city the Royals, rivals of the Commorants, ruled with an iron fist, breaking every lesser gang and twisting it to suit their means. The only freedom the Commorants had held for far too long was the gambling rings. It was time for a new power to rise. To stir things up as it were.

The Chicago streets were cobblestone but Ace could still feel the mud seep in through the sides of his shoes. The spring's chill worked its way past Ace's heavy suit to settle in his bones, making the dark haired man shiver slightly. He walked two steps faster, after all he had to catch this train. It would take him to where the fighting would be. Well at least where it would start. Ace rushed through the train station and managed to just slip onto his train as it left the platform. Making his way to the assigned box Ace was happy to note it was soundproofed. That would make things much more pleasant, it meant he wouldn't have to buy the other passenger's silence. Ace stepped into the darkened compartment and locked the door behind him. Turning on the lights he found the other occupant of the small space. The brown eyes were wide and terrified. Deep lacerations covering the man's upper torso, though none were deep enough to cause severe damage, just a lot of pain. And goodness, the bruises... My, his boys had outdone themselves.

Ace lit a cigarette.

"So, You gonna tell me what I wanna know?"

The other shook his head. He was scared and didn't try to hide it. What the Commorants had done to him so far was bad, but everyone knew that Ace had a penchant for causing pain.

Ace sighed disappointedly. What a pity, it was always better to talk sooner rather than later. After all he was under no delusions. Everyone talked. Ace slowly lowered the cigarette from his lips, letting the smoke swirl around his form. Then he smiled coldly and placed the lit end on the other man's collarbone.

From the open window what was heard were shattering screams, but more terrifying was the exhilarated laughter of a man who'd lost his mind long ago.

Of course anyone who'd heard the screaming wouldn't have breathed a word, not when it was_ that_ train.

After all the 5:10 to New York had a reputation.

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AN: Well the stage is pretty much set.


End file.
